


Our Memories Will Make You Hard to Please

by Morse_s Child (sherlockstummy)



Category: Inspector Morse (TV)
Genre: Gen, could be morse/lewis if you squint, ghost!morse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 03:37:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4004371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockstummy/pseuds/Morse_s%20Child
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morse is dead. Robbie is left alone, to do nothing but grieve. But...is Morse really gone? (Title inspired by State Champs' "Hard to Please")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Memories Will Make You Hard to Please

Lewis spent a long time hid away crying in the loo.

Morse was dead. Sod it all, Morse was dead. And there was nothing he could do about it, except cry. 

Lewis couldn’t remember a time when he’d cried this hard.

The station thinned out at around 4:30. Business as usual, never mind that the best guv had passed away hours ago. It meant that Lewis could clean himself up and go back to his office. Someone (probably the Superintendent) had left Morse’s affects on his desk.

Lewis took them, sat at Morse’s desk, and spread them out before him. The affects were unassuming; police badge, part of an opera ticket, misplaced threads, pencils for crosswords. They told nothing of the man who had lived, and died, just recently. 

Lewis caught himself about to cry again. He scrubbed at his eyes until the feeling went away. That’s when he noticed the car keys. Had they been there a moment before? He was unsure; in his grief, he might’ve missed them.

Morse’s desk would have to be cleaned out, but Lewis was going to make them wait until after the will had been read. He grabbed the keys and made for the jag. Someone had probably driven it back from Exeter earlier this morning when… 

Lewis swallowed hard and unlocked the car. The interior of the strangely flamboyant red jag smelled of worn leather, strong ale, and a hint of Morse’s aftershave (Lewis had become accustomed to its smell, seeing as how he and Morse had shared hotel rooms on occasion). Lewis cautiously put his hands on the wheel, feeling where the leather was worn from where Morse’s hands had rested. They’d rested here this morning. What had brought on the attack? Morse was old, and not in the best shape, but…

Something clicked. His attention was drawn to the cassette player.

Lewis got out and went around to the passenger side. He could almost feel Morse in the car with him, could almost hear in his head the numerous conversations they’d had about this and that; cases, mostly, but sometimes about other things. Music, usually. Sometimes family and personal beliefs and tastes. Lewis looked back on times he’d been offended by Morse’s standoffishness and chuckled fondly. Morse was just Morse, and not all of his grumpiness should’ve been taken to heart. The two of them never meant to hurt each other, not for more than a minute or two, at least.

Curious, Lewis pressed play on the cassette machine. Opera; he should’ve known. But what artist, what song, he didn’t know; Morse could tell him. But Morse was no longer here.

Lewis climbed into the back seat of the jag and lay down as best he could, listening. He closed his eyes, the way he had observed Morse doing (when he wasn’t driving or thinking, but just listening). Sometimes, Morse fell asleep like that, as if the music calmed his mind. Lewis could see that, he supposed.

His own mind floated backwards in time. He imagined Morse driving, humming under his breath, headed to a pub, as usual. The smell of beer and pub smoke could often be found on Morse’s person, but Lewis had also learned Morse’s unique smell. Everyone had a smell to them, underneath everything humans used to cover up their scents. Lewis imagined that smell; something like starch in the shirts, sweat composed heavily of alcohol, the leather of the jag, the stuffiness of his house, a bit of the smell of wine, and the scent of his records, mixed in with the aftershave. 

Lewis felt comforted, like Morse was really there. Before he knew it, he was drifting off to sleep.

The cassette popped out of the machine.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

After learning he had access to a third of Morse’s estate, including the jag, Lewis went to Morse’s home. He didn’t know why, really. Part of it was to keep the jag in proper shape (Morse would approve), and part of it was to see it intact before Morse’s family took it apart for resale. 

Lewis walked up the steps. He didn’t have the keys, but he remembered where Morse had hid the spare. He let himself in and crossed the threshold he’d crossed so often before.

The curtains were open, letting morning light in, pooling along the carpet and sofa, resting over the sideboard holding beer and scotch. It was far too early, but Lewis opened a beer, anyway. Val couldn’t really fault him for drinking, and anyway, it seemed in the spirit of things.

Lewis hesitated in the sitting room, staring around at everything lying still. He was half expecting Morse to walk out of the kitchen in his bathrobe, demanding to know how Lewis had gotten in (even though he was the one who’d told Lewis where the spare key was). The image made him smile; there was no need to fear Morse’s grumpiness unless it led to reckless behavior. 

But he still felt as if he was intruding. Lewis slowly puttered into the kitchen, still strangling the beer bottle in his hand, and tossed the bottle cap in the bin. Morse’s kitchen was relatively tidy, and showed no signs of breakfast, though Lewis knew the contents of his guv’s stomach; empty except for beer, water, and medications. He wasn’t expecting to find food, in other words.

Still feeling uncomfortable, Lewis hovered at the window overlooking the back garden. Lewis had wandered through Morse’s house before. He’d seen most of it, but only once. And Morse was still alive then.

Sun shone down through the window, playing on some dishes lying near the sink, and Lewis had the distinct feeling that he was welcome here. It was something he couldn’t explain. In his mind’s eye, he saw a needle touch a record. Morse’s record player, and most of his records, had been burned long ago.

Lewis wandered into the sitting room. The house was too damn quiet. Lewis wanted to shout, but somehow, that seemed disrespectful. Instead, he opened the stereo system and looked in. The tape read “Madame Butterfly” and something else in Italian. Lewis put it on and turned the volume high enough so he could hear it from upstairs. A woman singing was soon heard throughout the house.

Lewis wandered upstairs, through the upper rooms. Morse’s bed was unmade, untouched from the day of his death. It seemed so…lived-in. The wardrobe door was caught on a shirt, bulging open in an odd way. The top drawer was closed on a sock. A discarded tie lay on the nightstand, along with a book and a clock tilted askew. Morse’s bathrobe lay at the foot like a curled up cat.

Lewis sat on the edge of the bed. He noticed that Morse’s smell was strong here, and that made him smile. It was almost as if his guv had just walked out of the room a moment ago. 

Lewis picked up the book. Poetry. He should’ve known. Lewis shook his head fondly, smiling, and flipped through the pages. He could almost feel Morse over his shoulder, guiding him towards a specific page…but what page? 

The verse that caught Lewis’ eye was something about beer. Lewis actually laughed for the first time since Morse’s death.

Grief had made him tired and listless. Today was no different. Despite everything, Lewis lay down on the bed, his head resting on the pillow there, and held the book above him, studying well-thumbed pages. Lewis could imagine Morse lying there, doing the same. He smiled. Wind blew from an open window nearby, touching the long curtains and making them fly across the ground, a soft “shhh” accompanying it. Lewis could imagine it was Morse telling him to be quiet.

The song below had gone soft. Lewis lay the book on his chest, and then rolled to his side, looking at the clock. It wasn’t time for Val to worry just yet. 

Maybe Lewis imagined someone touching his hair. He closed his eyes, and thought that maybe he imagined the kiss at his temple; wishful thinking. 

“Shhh,” the curtains whispered. Down below, the music grew softer, like a lullaby. 

Lewis dreamed that he heard his guv whisper fondly, “Oh Lewis,” as the older man pulled a blanket over his shoulders.

The fact that it was there when he awoke made no difference in his beliefs.


End file.
